No Docile Bodies

No Docile Bodies

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docile bodies

in free fall 


everyday I’m thinking about the actions I can take to get myself free

to find my ground again

a remembering

a rewilding 

everything is a healing process

the effort of not doing, of letting the body be, letting the process unfurl

seeking release and relief from the jaws of these systems of harm 

intersecting and desiccating as they are wont to do.


my voice teacher says to us Jesus Christ, people, find the fucking ground of your voice to save your life right now


there is so much to mend


what is the gospel according to all free people of the future?

people who are not afraid of their voices

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for this month at floromancy,

let us orient ourselves towards

the granular, everyday efforting towards liberatory recovery practices,

for the individual and for the collective.

we’ll hear from folks who’s radical and unabashed self-love

rattles the cages and rings the bells 

of freedom

at all costs.

what are the actions of coming to your own rescue?

restoring your humanity and

agency in a place committed to having us feel deficient.

what are the tools looking like right now,

intuitively drafted and forged by

our own hands and hearts?


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our no’s make room for our yeses to thrive
no more docile bodies

I’ve been working on undomesticating 

my voice lately.

I ask myself often

what my life would look like

if I could heal the devastation 

that southern white womanhood

has had 

on my throat, my power, my agency, my lineage.

a blood memory

what if my voice wasn’t relied on as a means of coercion or manipulation or selling something?

what if every woman in my family 

felt heard, felt safe to say what she saw?

what if I never learned how to hide behind my voice?

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add a lilt here, a sugared inflection there 

how pleasant 

how nice

obedient bodies akimbo

what if I could extract myself from likability equations?

from the chronic compulsion to curate the self for others’ benefit?


can I locate pleasure in my body right now?

like a heat-mapping, an

intuitive body cartography

are my feet touching the floor? where does the ground of my voice live?

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healing shame and silence and a preoccupation with codes of conduct,

with our perceived palatability, with being right.

these are the fruits of this brutal place—

winnowing knife in hand

I am the farmer and the wheat

sorting grain from husk

we extract ourselves from the wreckage.

what fruits of ourselves are we fighting for?

out here rewilding, resisting the machinations that make bodies docile and then thrust them into

free fall.

find the ground. a prayer for

brave, unruly, vivacious and messy bodies everywhere.

Radical Bodies, rooted.

deeply planted and plugged into the Earth. more alive and more willing everyday, glory be.











 
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Risking Mediocrity

Risking Mediocrity

Yea, everything is fine

Yea, everything is fine